The Death-Cap Dancers (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  The same thing appeared to be in Isobel’s mind. She asked what Hermione proposed to do now that she could not go to her relatives.

  “Go home, I suppose,” said Hermione.

  “Why don’t you stay with us? The cabin is supposed to sleep six and there are only the three of us at present. Don’t make up your mind until you’ve seen what it’s like, but I’m sure we’d be glad to have you if you cared to muck in.”

  Lights were on in the cabin when they reached it. Tamsin, her ankle strapped up, was lying on a settee in the living quarters and Erica was in the kitchen preparing a meal. Isobel showed Hermione round the neat, well-ordered little holiday dwelling. It consisted of a lounge containing a settee, armchairs, and a large dining table with benches, and there was a radiator for warmth. Opening off the lounge were the two bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a shower-room. One bedroom had a double and a single bed in it and a settee which could be turned into another bed. The smaller room contained two bunks, one of which had to be reached by means of a vertical ladder. There were two entrances to the cabin. The one by which Hermione had been brought in opened into a vestibule where coats, outdoors shoes, Wellington boots, and waterproofs could be left and in it there was another radiator to assist in the drying of wet clothes.

  There were drawers, cupboards, wardrobes, and shelves in every part of the cabin, but all were arranged as neatly and in as space-saving a manner as they would have been in an up-to-date and well-equipped caravan.

  In contrast to the somewhat primitive appearance of the outside of the cabin, the inside walls were of shining, smooth, polished panelling. Outside the back entrance, which was by way of sliding french doors, there was a verandah with a table and benches for al fresco meals.

  “It’s a bit of a nuisance that all the mod con is in one room,” said Isobel, “but I suppose to separate the mod from the con would be too much to ask. Otherwise we approve of the set-up. Yours is the top bunk, unless you’ve got no head for heights. Erica has bagged the big bed and Tamsin is to have the single, so, if you have an objection to the top bunk, the settee is available.”

  “Supper up! Come and get it,” said Erica.

  No objection was raised by anybody when Erica suggested bed at ten. Hermione, in the top bunk, woke early the next morning. The windows were high up in the wall and from where she was she could see the forest tree-tops. The windows did not open, but the bunkroom was supplied with the necessary ventilation through airholes also high up on the wall. She learned by her watch that it was almost seven o’clock. The sky would have paled sufficiently, she decided, for a before-breakfast walk. She felt for the top of her ladder and descended cautiously, without disturbing Isobel.

  She picked up an armful of clothes, sneaked out into the lounge, promised herself a shower when she got back, dressed, and went out on to the verandah. Everything was quiet. Out on the moor on the previous evening there had been a wind, although it had not dispersed the rising mist, but here in the forest the silence was like that of an empty cathedral.

  The stars were still faintly visible. She could see them caught up among the dark branches of the trees. The air was cold and sweet and she thought she could smell the pines. She stood for a few moments breathing in their aroma, then she descended the steps, crossed a rough patch of grass and found a path which was nothing more than a forest track. It glimmered pale, secretive and seductive in the almost no-light and looked, to her romantic imagination, like the legendary road to elf-land.

  “And see ye not yon bonny road that winds about the ferny brae?” she said to herself as she followed it into the woods. Soon a dawn wind began to rustle the leaves which were still on the trees, and the sky lightened. The path widened and grew whiter. She followed its curves and gentle gradients, walking sometimes on its hard core, sometimes scuffling her feet with childlike pleasure through heaps of fallen leaves. The bushes took on a more familiar look and when she emerged into a clearing she could see the morning mist rising among the tree-trunks. A sharp autumn nip was now in the air and among the unkempt grasses and on the creeping trails of blackberry suckers which intruded on to the road were fine-spun, dew-wet, delicate cobwebs.

  Hermione walked on, experiencing a kind of soul-filling delight. The light broadened, the mists began to disperse and she realised that it was time to turn back. When she re-entered the cabin Erica was already getting the breakfast.

  “The others are still hogging it,” she said, “so I’ll just do enough for you and me and then they can get their own. I began to think you’d cut your stick.”

  “And vanished, like the tart in the sea-shanty? Oh, no. I simply went for a walk.”

  “What time do you want to leave?”

  “I don’t really want to leave at all. I’ve been in the woods, and it was marvellous.”

  “How long were you going to stay with your aunt?”

  “A fortnight, I suppose.”

  “Well, you seem to be our sort. Why don’t you stay with us?”

  “Do you really think I could stay? Isobel did mention it last night.”

  “Why not? The bed is there and you can pay for your food, I suppose. You’ll have to take your share in doing the chores. We’re not going to spoil you.” She gave Hermione a friendly smile and added, “So there it is. Take it or leave it.”

  — 2 —

  WOOD SAGE

  “I’ll take it. I’d love to stay, so long as it’s all right with the others.”

  “You said Isobel mentioned it, and I’m sure Tamsin will agree, not that we take any notice of her as a general rule. If you want a shower, better have it now while the coast is clear before the others get up. I’ll give you your breakfast as soon as you’re through. I expect I’d better make some sort of rota. Four people to one shower-room need organising.”

  “Are you a born organiser?”

  “I’ve had organising thrust upon me from an early age. My mother died when I was eight and my father has not married again. Wonder whether there’s a chance of getting the Sunday papers? We shall all want to sit about a bit after breakfast.”

  At ten there was a caller. A tall young man was at the door when Erica answered it. He gave her a brisk greeting and added, “I saw the boy cycling towards the shop with the papers. I’m going down for ours, so I wondered whether you’d like me to bring one for you. My name’s John Trent. My parents and I have the cabin opposite yours.”

  Isobel and Tamsin had breakfasted and it was Isobel who answered: “Oh, thanks very much. Sunday Times and Sunday Express, if they’ve got them.”

  “They had them last week.”

  “You’ve been here a week, then?”

  “Yes. Let me warn you to expect one of the foresters this morning.”

  “Oh, Lord! What have we done?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s simply that on the first Sunday morning a forester collects up the new arrivals and takes them on a conducted tour so that they know their way around. It’s quite easy to get lost in the forest, although I should think the literature they supply and their map of the forest walks would be sufficient guide to anyone of average intelligence.”

  “Ah, but not many people are of average intelligence,” said Isobel, “as you would know if you had my job.”

  “Even with average intelligence, you’d need a compass as well as a map,” said Tamsin from the settee. John Trent looked at the strapped-up ankle.

  “So you won’t be going on the pious pilgrimage,” he said.

  “Not today, but it’s only a wrench. I shall go out for a drive this afternoon, I expect.”

  The forester, with another group of holidaymakers, turned up soon after John returned with the papers. Erica volunteered to keep Tamsin company and to cook the Sunday lunch while Isobel and Hermione went off with the party for a nominal half-hour’s tour.

  The suggested half-hour’s walk turned into a protracted hike which lasted until lunch-time, for the forester was an enthusiastic naturalist and spared neither their ears
nor their legs as he took them round. The party was given the names of trees and shrubs, and was taken out of the forest itself to be shown two species of amphibians, the common and the great crested newt, which had chosen to breed in an abandoned sheep-trough. Back in the forest they saw fungi, including the scabrous-looking orange phlebia sprouting from the dead bough of a forest oak—“you can find it on birch, alder, and gorse at any time of year”—and were shown the “lawyer’s wig,” edible when young. “We use it as an ingredient of a ketchup made with vinegar, salt, peppercorns, coriander, and a touch of ground cloves. When the fungi are old they turn to a black mess which can be used as ink. And here we have . . .”

  He became almost tiresomely informative and in the middle of a pine-wood and a dissertation on the red milk-cap which was spreading itself freely on the ground under the odiferous, tall, straight pine-trees, Isobel touched Hermione’s arm and they sidled away and went back to the cabin.

  “Did you enjoy it?” asked Tamsin.

  “We were shown a badger’s sett and a fox’s hole and were taken to a bank where there was a positive warren of rabbits, although we did not see the rabbits themselves, only their droppings—and these were much mixed up with those of sheep,” said Isobel. “No doubt it was all very interesting for those who like that kind of thing, but all it reminded me of was the dreary nature walks we used to take under the guidance of our botany lecturer at college. Anyway, my feet are killing me. Chuck me the Sunday Express. I can usually do their general knowledge crossword if it doesn’t include the names of politicians or anything to do with electricity.”

  “You filled in ohm last Sunday,” said Tamsin.

  “No. It filled itself in from the ‘down’ columns, so that saw me through. I would scorn to know anything about a subject which all our sixth-form boys have at their fingertips.”

  After lunch she announced her intention of spending the afternoon with the newspaper and with her feet up. Hermione, who had taken her long walk before breakfast as well as the later one with the forester, was also disinclined for further exertion.

  At half-past two, just as the washing-up was finished, John Trent came over and offered to take Tamsin and Erica in his car to make, as far as possible, the same round as the other two had done that morning with the forester.

  “We had a reclining seat put in the car for my mother,” he said, looking at Tamsin, “so I can put it back for you to keep your foot up. My parents always snooze on Sunday afternoons, so I’d be pleased to have something to do.”

  Tamsin reported that her ankle was so much easier that she had no need to keep her foot up, but would be glad to go out in a car and follow the forest trails so far as this was possible.

  “I think I’ve walked most of them,” said John. “Of course, walking is the only real way to get to know a countryside.”

  “A sage remark,” said Isobel, “but Hermione and I defaulted this morning. We dodged the column at the second viewpoint after we’d seen a farm and some sheep. My legs were giving way beneath me and my mind was giving way under a mass of information. I spend my working life dishing out information to others, but I find it difficult to digest when it’s dished out to me.”

  “I shall try not to bore the passengers. If they prefer it, I will do nothing except answer questions.”

  “And will you stop the car if I ask you?” said Tamsin.

  “Yes, of course. Do you get car-sick?”

  “Oh, heavens, no! I’m a painter and I shall be on the lookout for anything that seems to be in my line because this is a working holiday for me.”

  “I say! Have you had anything hung?”

  “Only a hare somebody sent her last year,” said Isobel, “and after she’d hung it according to instructions, she liked the look of what was happening to it so little that she asked the man next door to bury it. He didn’t, of course. He ate it and said he enjoyed it very much.”

  “It nearly turned her into a vegetarian,” said Erica, “or so she told me in a letter. This holiday is a get-together for the three of us. We’re all working-girls and don’t see a great deal of one another as a general rule.”

  John picked up Tamsin, when he had brought his car round to the foot of the cabin steps, and installed her in the front seat, where there was more leg-room than Erica had at the back. They were out until five and Tamsin was lyrical when they returned and John had gone.

  “We’ve been out on to the moors as well as in the forest,” she said, “and there are lots of bits I want to paint. We were able to leave the car on the edge of the woods and John wouldn’t let me do any real walking, but with his help—”

  “The strong man carried her,” said Erica. “Why do I weigh ten and a half stone and look like a baby elephant, while she looks like a wistful wraith and is all pale and interesting with a wrenched ankle?”

  “There was something in the woods which he very much wanted us to see,” said Tamsin.

  “One of these awful warnings,” said Erica, “that we must point out to you two when we get the chance. Deadly poisonous, my dears, and easily mistaken by the uninitiated for a true, wholesome, delicious mushroom. It even grows in the same places as mushrooms. It’s called the Death-Cap and you don’t know you’ve been poisoned until twelve hours after you’ve eaten it and then it’s usually too late for any antidote to work.”

  “So the great thing,” said Tamsin, “is to distinguish it from the harmless mushroom and avoid it. It grows in deciduous woods in the autumn and on all kinds of soil and its Latin name is Amanita phalloides. It can have a yellowish or greenish or brownish cap and it even has one of those sort of frills round its neck like a true mushroom. John says fatalities from eating it are more common on the Continent than over here because foreigners are more adventurous with their fungi than we are, but he thought he ought to warn us about the Death-Cap all the same.”

  “Rather like it and just as poisonous, he says, is the Destroying Angel, Amanita virosa, but fortunately it’s rare in this country and he couldn’t find a specimen to show us,” said Erica. “What is it that seems so thrilling about poisons?”

  “We had all this information from our forester,” said Isobel. “In answer to your question, I suppose it’s simply the possibility of causing death which provides the titillation. You can’t be bothered with a crime novel which doesn’t have at least one murder in it, can you? That’s why poisoning is interesting. It’s so often deliberate, you see, and so desperately wicked, at that—worse, I mean, than bashing somebody over the head or even strangling them—that it has the fascination which makes evil so much more interesting than goodness. Look at schools. It’s the rule-breakers, the pests, the sinners, who get all the attention and most of the limelight, not the decent, middle-of-the-road, non-teacher-baiting herd which, fortunately for us poor pedagogues, still forms the main body of the population.”

  Erica returned to the original subject.

  “Anyway, I’m glad I know about Amanita phalloides,” she said, “because it really does look so much like mushroom that you could easily mistake it if you hadn’t been warned.”

  “I don’t know why you two were bored this morning,” said Tamsin, “It wasn’t only the fungi. We’ve had a wonderful time. John took us all over the place. Wherever the car could go, we went. There’s nothing he doesn’t know. We even had the good luck to see a fox.”

  “You live in the country, Hermione. Have you any views on fox-hunting?” asked Erica.

  “Not really. I don’t think ours is hunting country. Bicester would be the nearest. I don’t care enough either way to get hot under the collar. I once walked a hound puppy and thought it was perfectly charming and a friend of mine brought up a fox-cub which she adored, so what’s the answer?”

  “That only man is vile,” said Isobel, “but we knew that, anyway.”

  “Telephone!” said Laura Gavin, getting up from the table. “Must be a wrong number. Who would telephone us at this time of day?”

  “Finish your
dinner,” said Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley. “I will answer it.” She went out of the room and presently found herself in conversation with Hermione’s mother.

  “I’m a bit puzzled,” said Mrs. Jenny Lestrange. “You know that Hermione was going to spend a fortnight with my sister Sarah? Well, there is mumps in the house, so they can’t have her. Instead of coming straight home she seems to have fixed up to stay with some people with whom she spent last night. She picked them up on the moors. I suppose it’s all right? Young people do these casual things nowadays, don’t they?”

  “Picked them up on the moors?” said Dame Beatrice. “That sounds odd and intriguing. However, I think the fact that the pronoun in the accusative case is in the plural should reassure you. Had she said she had picked him up on the moors, you might have cause for speculation. I take it that you are slightly perturbed, or you would not have telephoned.”

  “She phoned me just a few minutes ago to say she has been invited to stay at this shack in the forest at a place called Wayland. She thought at first that it was only for one night, but now it seems just possible that she may put in a fortnight with these people at their express invitation.”

  “Well, Hermione is a sensible girl. I do not suppose there is anything to worry about.”

  “I’m not exactly worried. The thing is that I can’t get in touch with her over the telephone unless she rings me first. There is only a public call-box where she is. I have written to her to ask her to keep in contact with us, but no post goes out from here until tomorrow morning and goodness knows whether letters ever get to this wooden hut of hers, anyway.”

  “Wayland? A wooden hut? Oh, it will be on Forestry Commission property, and perfectly respectable. It is a holiday centre.”

  “What, at this time of year?”

  “Mellow autumn, ‘close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.’ Autumn is a worthy season for holidays and immortal verse.”

  “Keats was thinking about September, not October. He says the swallows were gathering; that means they hadn’t migrated. I wish the starlings would migrate instead of being joined by hordes of their relations who do migrate from further north, and sometimes I think the whole lot of them descend on this farm. They even chivvy the cats if I put food out, and one really doesn’t want the stable cats indoors. Look, Aunt dear, I’d go myself if Hermione didn’t get so resentful when she thinks I’m coming the old hen over her young life, but I really would like to know what’s going on in this holiday place.”